


For You and I

by PinkAfroPuffs



Series: Tales of the Champion [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Maybe a little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: "To Anso. May the Maker smile upon you, and may you never have to deal with my sort again."





	For You and I

From the lyrium markings on his back to the white of his hair, it was very clear from looking at Fenris that life had been very hard on him; one needn’t know the finer details to understand that this man had gone through some _shit_ , and nothing needed to be said about it. Escaping slavers with only the clothes on his back and leaving terror in his wake, there was nothing but respect, and often dumbfounded _pity_ to be had for Fenris, at least, for outsiders. It was one of the many reasons why Fenris disliked outsiders; he didn’t need _pity_ , he needed safety, allies, a bigger _sword_ for Andraste’s sake.

Then came Hawke.

She was much like a six-foot hurricane; with her dark skin and bright hair, one might mistake her for an otherworldly being- Fenris surely did. It came as no surprise to him that she did magic, though knowing it put fear in his bones and shook him to his very core.

“Tell me,” after receiving the help of her “merry band”, he tried being civil, “what manner of mage are you? What is it that you seek?”

And Hawke, as she always would, could only shrug, “I’m not seeking anything.”

His lip twitched. “Yet danger will undoubtedly find you.”

He was right, of course, but he wondered, after spending days- and sometimes, nights- with Hawke if it really had anything to do with her being a mage. Before he realized it he was surrounded by a very strange group of criminals (and Aveline, though one might mistake her for a truly upstanding law-woman if they weren’t careful) from across Kirkwall. Truly, the most bizarre bit was that they rallied to protect him. When had been the last time he’d relied on anyone? Baffling, really.

And Hawke, with her witty one liners and charming smiles. Why did she do that? She even visited him on occasion, suspiciously at times when the nights ran long, and the wine supply thinned. He wondered about Hawke, tall, silly, beautiful Hawke who’d bullied the templars into submission with a mere flex of her muscles and a grin on her playful lips.

“Why does Danarius keep chasing after you, anyway?” As she brought the cup to her lips, the side of her mouth curled in disdain. It pleased him with how adamant she was about hating slavers. It was a comforting image to remember Hawke cleaving the scum in two with her _staff_ , a feat within itself. “He must want something more than a runaway slave. Did you steal a trinket of his or something?” Her eyebrows wiggled the slightest bit, and he softened.

“I am no thief,” he answered, looking towards the ceiling, “but the truth is that he doesn’t want _me_ at all. He wants the markings on my back. Lyrium, burned into my skin. It made me powerful enough to be fitting as his _pet_ ,” he spat the words like poison, and Hawke softened a little. “Now he wishes his _precious_ investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

In an almost pitying tone, her muffled voice came from behind the cup, “Seems a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.”

It caught him off guard; really, it was so unexpected that he found himself laughing. The freedom to be able to tell someone about these things felt…good? Better? Despite the constant pain he felt from those damned scars, in her he’d found some comfort. He’d thought better to ignore it, but the visits continued, and inevitably, so did the flirting. To be desired was nothing _new_ , but with Hawke it felt like something _more_ something...different.

Real? He didn’t know.

“I cannot remember my own mother,” he admitted to her once, “but I think yours must be proud of you, Hawke.”

“She’d be proud of you, Fenris. I don’t see why she wouldn’t be.” She’d said softly. “But my mother...I’m sure mother blames me for what happened to Carver.”

“She wouldn’t,” he insisted. “There was no telling what would happen in the Deep Roads.” He’d hoped that it gave her some reassurance, but he’d never been the best at comforting people. “A fine woman, really. Who else would accept known criminals in her estate?”

“Well, I’m her child, so there’s no helping _that_ ,” she shrugged, and Fenris barked a laugh at her. “Look at you, so cheerful! Have you nothing left to brood about?”

He’d considered for a moment, carefully taking in her appearance. “Not from this angle, no.”

The redness lashing out against her brown skin was almost too funny to ignore. “My, my, Fenris! You’ve gotten better at flattery since our last meeting, haven’t you?”

“I may have gotten in a bit of practice since our last visit, yes.” He’d leaned very carefully against the table, for once, not touching the wine as he crossed his arms over his chestplate. “Between the trouble you’ve gotten us into.”

“I’m impressed! I don’t leave much room for _that_! What with the...knife wielding, and lyrium smuggling.” She’d tried not to smile, crossing the room a bit to meet him near the middle, and he recalled the feelings associated with it- anxiety, for one, and really, it was all he’d remembered the event. “Have you had any other kinds of practice?”

“...no.” He’d smiled. “Perhaps at another time, Hawke.”

She hadn’t pushed the subject or breached his personal space; it was odd, being respected like a person, almost as strange as “freedom” at this point, but Fenris tried not to dwell on this. He was owed it, yes, he _deserved_ this.

He deserved a _lot_ of things, really. Owed them, at this point. It didn’t feel _right_ to say those things, or think them, but when he looked at his allies, when he played Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man with Varric and Isabela, when he spoke to Hawke about _anything_ -

Before he knew it, he was on his way to the Hawke estate, brave and just a _little_ bit drunk. Wasn’t that why they called it liquid courage? He could still see straight, and the night was clear when he walked up to the door, found his way inside, and said, “Would it be too forward if I admit that I have thought of nothing but you in your absence?”

He waited for rejection; freedom or not, was it not routine that he suffer at the whims of fate?

Imagine his surprise when she asked him to stay! When suddenly, fate carried them to Hawke’s quarters and left them there, in peace, for what felt like _hours_ of bliss-

-and then the terror that consumed him when his memories began to return made it all feel sour. Of course this would be when his past started rearing its ugly head and tormented him once more, in the midst of such happiness.

“Was is that bad?” She joked, the thinly veiled anxiety flickering in her eyes.

“It was fine,” he started, but he realized he didn’t have it in him to lie to her. “No...no, that is...insufficient, it was better than I could have _dreamed_ ,” his voice cracked a bit in his honesty, and he leaned very heavily against the fireplace. “But…”

“But?” The earnesty in her eyes always compelled him to speak, though he wouldn’t think of keeping secrets from her.

“...my memories, from before. They have….returned.” The words hung between them for what seemed like hours, and Hawke sat up in the bed, combing her fingers through her curly hair as she thought of something to say.

“I didn’t think it’d be _that_ good-”

“Hawke.” He’d told her firmly, carefully. “This is _serious_ . I’m sorry...I...I cannot do this. I feel like such a fool.” It would not be fair to her; losing two siblings to the Blight while taking care of her mother was _enough_ , and she needn’t add a former slave’s amnesiac woes- or emotional dependency thereof- to the list.  

_“I just wanted to be happy.”_

He’d been selfish, though, taking her favor, even though he’d ended courtship between them. Hawke never said a word about it. Her eyes had flickered to the flash of red on his wrist, and then to the Hawke family crest on his hip, but she’d said nothing. No jokes. No demands.

Wasn’t she angry with him? Disappointed? Yes, he decided that he’d made the proper decision, in the end, to _stop_ , at least for a while, and maybe in another life they would be better.

He expected to be left out of adventures, or even for Hawke to ignore him for a long while; instead, imagine his shock when she brought him a book! A book, she said, that she thought he’d like!

His first reaction had been wary; was she being cruel? Surely she knew that he couldn’t read-

“He freed the slaves, with Andraste,” she told him. “So I thought ‘who do I know that would get a kick in the breeches out of this’? What do you think? You know about him, right?”

“It’s...slaves aren’t permitted to read.” It felt strange to say it to her, especially after realizing it hadn’t occurred to her.

A very knowing, “Oh,” escaped her. In a sort of flippant way, her fingers combed through her hair (as she often did, when trying to stay casual) and she said, “I can teach you, if you want.“

 _Teach me?_ It would be wonderful to spend more time with Hawke before, but now… “I…” He eyed the book with some curiosity. Was not freedom a chance to broaden your horizons? What would be the use if he squandered it? “...if you have the time, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

The way her face lit up made him feel as though _he_ was going to give the lessons. “I hope you’re prepared for a particularly shite teacher.”

“You _are_ the one who offered.”

The lessons became so frequent that Varric began prodding him about it. “So...you get down and dirty with Hawke? Just taking notes for the memoir, you know.”

“If facing a horde of rampaging Qunari and corrupt Chantry-women counts as getting ‘down and dirty’, then yes, I’m sure we’ve _all_ done so in the past few days.”

Varric smiled in that knowing way he did when he already had all the facts, and was only testing you for the truth. “Oh, the elf’s got jokes. Color me surprised.”

“...my business with Hawke is no business of yours, dwarf.” He added, and Varric’s grin only got wider. It would be best to just stop talking. He knew too much.

The blood mage was even _worse_ about it, giggling while they walked around, and when he finally snapped, “Quit looking at me like that,” she only _laughed harder_.

“You’re in _love_ ,” she sighed, and Fenris found his eyes rolling.

“I am not.”

“You are. Everytime Hawke turns around, you look after her with those big ol’ puppy eyes of yours,” Merrill laughed.

“There are no _puppy eyes._ ” He hissed.

“Even you should be happy, y’know?” The really irritating, wispy way she said things was so clear in her voice now that Fenris had to turn away. “It wouldn’t kill y’to smile, either, you know. Might crack your face a bit, though.”

He sighed. Was _nothing_ secret? It was like spending his days and nights with a nosy group of old biddies. (He couldn’t _really_ be disappointed; the concern for his and Hawke’s well-being was….something. Definitely something.)

But then Hawke’s mother died. The same woman who asked him no questions whenever he came and went into the Hawke estate- sometimes in the wee hours of the morning and dark hours of the night- was found in some godforsaken hovel, a shell of her former self because of some blood mage. What was it about Hawke that attracted such misfortune? The Maker, or the old gods or whatever had to be cruel.

“I don’t know what to say,” he found himself standing in her bedroom’s doorway that night, awkwardly shifting his weight a bit, “but I am here.”

The dark circles under her eyes when she looked at him told him more than enough. “Just...say something. Anything.”

This caught him off guard. Something possibly funny would not work, but...what was it people said at these times? “...they...say death is a journey,” he started carefully, and she sort of patted the spot beside her.

“A journey to where?” Her bloodstained boots were still on her feet; little flecks of blood stained her cheeks like freckles, near the ceremonial smear of Ferelden war paint across her nose.

“...I don’t know,” he answered lamely. “It’s just a thing people say.”

A short laugh escaped her. When she leaned against him, he didn’t stop her. Very softly, he said, “...I will stay as long as you need me.”

Her labored breathing became shallow and soft, suddenly; when he looked down, he realized that after a long day of fighting and visceral grief, she’d fallen asleep. A sense of comfort washed over him. At least now she could have some peace.

When Hawke stirred again, it was morning. He’d barely noticed time passing, and as she rubbed her eyes, she seemed almost surprised to find him there. “Have you been here all night?”

He said nothing at first; really, what could he say? Any of the things he could say would betray his feelings. Instead he shrugged and said, “I have little else to do in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Oh, you-” It was then he realized she’d caught him. “You can’t go on not sleeping like that. You should have woken me. Maker’s breath, my neck hurts-”

He chuckled. “You sleep like the dead.” It struck him after the words left his mouth that it might be an off-color remark. Hawke didn’t seem to mind it though.

“I snore too,” she added, “but you probably know that. If you aren’t going to rest, you might as well have breakfast.”

Her eyes were still ringed with red from the night before, so he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. “Alright. But I won’t eat anything without a little wine to go with it.”

* * *

 

Nigh three years passed. By some twisted strain of fate, Fenris received word of family he might have; a letter, he found, by a woman named Varania who claimed to be his sister.

“She’s here now,” he said, pacing. Hawke was standing entirely still out of the corner of his eye, and he bit his thumb, anxiously mulling it over. “It _could_ be a trap, and yet….and yet-”

“You’re worried Danarius knows.” Hawke affirmed clearly.

“The more it seems he doesn’t know, the more certain it is that he does!” He snapped his fingers. Stopping abruptly, he turned and looked into her eyes,  “Come with me Hawke. I need you with me to meet her.”

“Where is she?”

“At the Hanged Man, for the next week, at least. It would mean a lot to me-”

Her smile made him sort of melt, which, admittedly felt a bit silly of him. “Of course we’ll go. And if it _is_ a trap, I’ll just light them all on fire. I’m good at that. Helping people, killing people,” she shrugged, wiggling her eyebrows in that silly way she does.

Now, the Hanged Man had never been the _cleanest_ or even the most memorable of places (and certainly not an ideal place for meeting one’s long-lost sister). Her dark hair and familiar face were a comfort to him; memories of playing in their mother’s garden danced through his mind.

“You called me-”

“Leto.”

But she seemed tense, strange, even. “Why are you so-”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” before Hawke was done speaking, she’d drawn her staff. “And all of them end with me lighting _him_ on fire.”

And there he was, Fenris’ worst nightmare, plaguing him for years, ruining his romantic relationship with Hawke, turning his _family_ against him. With that stupid smug look on his face, he started spouting nonsense about “good citizens” and congratulated Varania on selling him out. It was hard to focus on what exactly was going on; his fist clenched, and his temper soared so dangerously high that it was a miracle that he didn’t begin attacking blindly. “You _betrayed_ me?” What was the use of a family if they couldn’t protect him?

“I had to, Leto-”

“Don’t call me _that_ ,” the fury on his tongue made his mouth taste like ash. “Don’t _ever_ call me that again.”

“So this is your new mistress? Quite beautiful-”

The crack of Hawke’s fist smashing into Danarius’ face was satisfying to say the least; unceremoniously, her gloves _clacked_ and plates shifted against bone, the soft hiss of her temper clear through the blood on her knuckles. The slaver staggered backwards a bit, his nose bloody, no doubt shocked at the abruptness of the encounter.

“You’ve no right to speak to him, you _monster_ ,” she spat, venom dripping from her pretty lips, fangs sharp and ready to attack again at a moment’s notice. “Fenris belongs to no one but himself.”

Funny, that after six years of pining after Hawke, it was here that Fenris was sure that he loved her.

It was satisfying to kill Danarius- to feel a sense of peace within his soul that no longer would anyone be chasing after him- but it all felt wrong. Bittersweet. His only family from his life before was no ally of his.

“I have….no one,” he said aloud, fingers soaked with blood, residue dripping into the wood in the floors, soaking into his skin. “Truly, I am alone.”

“You have _me_ , Fenris.”

How soft she sounded! How assuring her tone! He was baffled, hearing this woman, with blood across her armor, aching bones and a split lip, speak to him this way.

But…

Wasn’t she right? Hadn’t she been with him the whole time? He hadn’t realized he’d smiled, or even cupped her cheek with his hand until the finality of the events that had unfolded came back to him, his hand falling to his side. He cleared his throat, then, complex and contrasting emotions bouncing through his body so fast he could’ve been a rubber-band ball. “We should go. Being here makes me feel unclean, like the magic has etched itself into my soul as well.”

* * *

 

“You can go anywhere now, you know that right? No use staying around this dingy town, right?” Isabela was sitting in a chair in his estate, gabbering about things that made him feel empty. “I know! You can be a raider. Look, you could even join my crew!”

“A crew of one? I’ll pass,” he waved his hand, a bit irritated. It was very like Isabela to be flippant about one’s problems, her own way of careless comfort to others, but today it felt annoying. The heavy weight of an uncertain future bore down on him now, and not being able to talk about it to someone made him miss Hawke’s presence.

As if summoned, the sound of heavy, iron-clad boots passed through the door, just as Isabela decided there was no use convincing him to “have fun” with his life now. “She doesn’t understand.”

Hawke sort of gestured before she sat, as though she knew he wanted to talk and was willing to listen. He felt spoiled.

“I’ve nothing now, not even an enemy. The uncertainty of the future is…” He searched for the proper word. It escaped his grasp, flitted between his teeth and off of his tongue. “...before, I had a goal. Now, there’s nothing to worry much about.”

With a grin, Hawke crossed her arms. “You’re not saying you miss being chased, are you?”

A laugh escaped him. “I wouldn’t go that far. But...perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don’t know where it leads.”

“I...hope wherever it leads, we stay together.” She said, looking away as she scratched the back of her neck, bashful, and he found himself smiling again.

“As do I.” After a moment, a thought occurred to him. “...we...never spoke about the incident that happened three years ago.”

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” she murmured, looking down.

“I was a fool. I thought it better if you hated me...I deserve no less.”

She softened, but before she could speak, he continued. If there were a way to fix _this_ , then now, more than any time, would be a good time to try.

“I remember your touch as though it were yesterday,” he admitted, his heart thrumming softly in his chest. “I thought it would be...better, if I tried to work through things myself. I was a coward. If I could go back, I would stay and tell you everything. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope that you can forgive me now.”

Silence. Though the terror of being captured had been prevalent in his mind and body for a while now, the feeling the emptiness gave him at this moment keenly rivaled it. “...why did you leave, Fenris?” Her eyebrows went up, open, as though she were speaking objectively and not genuinely curious.

“I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times,” he admitted, his voice cracking a bit. “The pain, the memories it brought up, it was too much. I should have told you how I felt.”

She poked her lips out a bit, obviously milking this for what it was worth. “Oh? What would you have said?”

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.” He breathed. Hawke seemed rather pleased at this; she wet her lips a bit, and for the first time during their talk, looked up at him from her seat.

“Well, Fenris,” she said, resting her cheek on her open palm, “I’m sure you’d be delighted to know that I am a _very_ forgiving person.”

It was very hard to ignore the redness of her cheeks in the candlelight, emboldening him enough to tell her, “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

“You always know what to say, don’t you,” she murmured, and her arms were around him, lips brushing against each other, a moment shared between them like a special secret just for the two of them.

* * *

 

“So, you weren’t just wearing my favor as a fashion statement.” She teased, mistakenly saying so around Anders, who looked almost offended as he slipped another mage manifesto into her bookshelf.

“Of course not. I would never take something so lightly,” Fenris scoffed, and she snorted.

“You don’t take anything lightly,” she teased, passing him the wine.

“You wound me, Hawke,” he placed a hand on his chest, a smile gracing his lips. “I’ll have you know I take most of the things _you_ say with a grain of salt.”

“Wha- How cruel of you, using my surname! In a month’s time, you’ll be Hawke too, won’t you?” She seemed quite pleased with herself here, one hand to her lips.

“Yes, but in the meantime, I will _gladly_ abuse using your family name when you upset me,” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’ll drink to you keeping me from tripping on my own staff, then?” Talia grinned.

Fenris lifted his glass to her. “I might not have much luck with _that_. Try another one.”

She hummed, her eyes flickering to the ceiling. “...why don’t you make one? You’re better at words then I.”

“A valid point,” he teased. “...to you, Hawke. And _whatever_ trouble you may put us in. May it not kill us, at least.”

She blushed again. It was very easy to make her do so, he’d found. “And to Anso, for letting me meet you.”

This time, he felt a silly fluttering in his chest. “...to Anso,” he said, and he resolved that he had never been happier.

 


End file.
